His face, the face I haven’t seen in the flesh in two-and-a-half years, is inscrutable. Time hasn’t etched it, but instead brought out things it was supposed to. His cheekbones are still steep, but his jaw is wider now, covered with a beard as plush as a night sky, glistening, and his skin is an undisturbed pool of dark elixir that looks like something you can lap at for refreshment; in fact, I used to. His deep eyes carry no love, no hate, but something strong and intense, wrapped in clingfilm to preserve it or maybe to keep out . . . Keep me out.
